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DAINTINGS 
DRAWINGS 


OBJECTIVE TO ABSTRACT 


A. WALKOWITZ 














Waar one picks up in the course of years by contact 
with the world must in time incrust itself on one’s per- 
sonality. It stamps a man with the mark of his time. 
Yet, it is after all, only a dress put on a man’s own nature. 
But if there be a personality at the core then it will mould 
the dress to its own forms and show its humanity beneath tt. 


In speaking of my art, I am referring to something that ts 
beneath its dress, beneath objectivity, beneath abstraction, 
beneath organization. I am conscious of a personal rela- 
tion to the things which I make the objects of my art. Out 
of this personal relation comes the feeling which I am try- 
ing to express graphically. I do not avoid objectivity nor 
seek subjectivity, but try to find an equivalent for whatever 
is the effect of my relation to a thing, or toa part of a thing, 
or to an afterthought of tt. I am seeking to attune my art 
to what I feel to be the keynote of an experience. If it 
brings to me a harmonious sensation, I then try to find the 
concrete elements that are likely to record the sensation in 
visual forms, in the medium of lines, of color shapes, of 
space division. When the line and color are sensitized, 
they seem to me alive with the rhythm which I felt in the 
thing that stimulated my imagination and my expression. 
If my art is true to its purpose, then it should convey to me 
in graphic terms the feeling which I received in imaginative 
terms. That 1s as far as the form of my expression 1s in- 
volved. 


As to its content, it should satisfy my need of creating a 
record of an experience. 
A. WALKowITz 


To Abstract Art 
ART HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IMITATIONS 
OF OBJECTS 
ART HAS ITS OWN LIFE 
one receives impressions from contacts or objects 
and then new forms are born in equivalents 
of line or color improvesations 
A RECORD OF AN EXPERIENCE 
the artist creates a new form of life 
by wmbuing the atom of life into the line 
through sensitized touch that palpitates 
with life and continues to live forever 


oA Walkout; 











PLAQUE BY VICTOR D. BRENNER 


ONE HUNDRED 


DRAWINGS 


By A. WALKOWITZ 


ier CT TON Ss: BY 
HENRY McBRIDE JOHN WEICHSEL 


CHARLES VILDRAC 
WILLARD HUNTINGTON WRIGHT 





B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc. 


NEW YORK MCMXxXvV 






COPYRIGHT; (925, BY) = ry 
B. W. HUEBSCH, INC. ry 


H Wren 


ns 12), 6h, 


ENERO DU GLEIONS 


I 
. ee the first Impressionist canvas was painted, pictures seem 


to have become illustrations for a long and eloquent debate, in 
which every technical and every esthetic problem has been separately 
reconsidered, and in which the speculative reason has enriched itself 
at every opportunity. The Impressionist painters discovered the 
vibration of the luminous atmosphere which envelops objects, and, 
in order to obtain more brilliance and more vibration, they purified 
the palette and simplified it. After them, painters thought only of 
their new conquest, color, until the rise of a new authority—that 
of Cézanne. 

Cézanne, obsessed by the representation of masses, by the weight of 
objects in atmosphere, took up again the whole pictorial problem. 
Thanks to him, the Post-Impressionists discovered how modulations 
of tone in the same plane can reveal this heaviness in a palpable and 
magnificent actuality, and how powerfully the relation and the bal- 
ance of contrasts can reveal the beauty of a mass in space and even 
the density of space itself. The Cubists followed Cézanne’s discover- 
ies into a blind alley, but not uselessly—after Cubism, the necessity 
of a technical standard made itself felt. The artists of today have 
returned to the direct representation of objects, to questions of com- 
position and of style, and many painters who wish to attain pictorial 
classicism try to achieve pictures which shall be at once sensitive and 
intellectual. 

These various movements have succeeded each other so rapidly 
that their discordant reverberations are still sounding in concert. The 


7] 


debate is less impassioned than it was ten or fifteen years ago, but it 
goes on. 

Mr. Walkowitz must have followed this debate eagerly. His draw- 
ings, moreover, are evidence that he has taken a part in it, or rather, 
that he has pursued it in his own work with rare critical understand- 
ing. Without diminishing his emotional power, this pursuit has given 
him a perfect consciousness of the unchanging qualities in every true 
work of art. 

He knows, in the first place, that he is not required to give back to 
us our own poor and confused idea of appearances: he knows that if 
he happens to represent an object, it must be only in the degree 
wherein the representation coincides with a plastic expression of the 
object; he knows that if he enumerates the objects he has seen, it 
must be only in the degree wherein the enumeration accords with his 
composition. He knows, in other words, that to compose is to choose. 

He also knows that the artist must disengage from the world’s 
aspects certain harmonious relations which have struck only himself, 
and that he must reveal them to us in the way that will excite our 
emotions; he knows that he must eliminate everything in nature 
which does not enter into these relations, everything which com- 
promises unity of vision, unity of character, unity of feeling—in one 
word, style. 

He knows, finally, that he may freely transpose these relations or 
modify them, that he may freely recompose the world, whether de- 
liberately or instinctively. 

But above all, Mr. Walkowitz must be praised because his pictures 
reflect all of his technical interests and illustrate them admirably with- 
out ceasing to live. Whether he is concerned with arrangement and 
with the solidity of balanced forms, in The Kiss and in The Family, 
whether his problem is the assembling of beautiful masses by giving 
them sculptural expression, in Human Rhythm and in The Lovers, 
whether he is remembering the lesson of the great Cézanne, in The 
Bathers and in A Landscape, whether he is intoxicated by decoration, 


[8 ] 


by rhythm, or by fantasy, his models are always much more to him 
than pretexts for technical demonstrations or for mere pictorial exer- 
cises. It is life above all that he feels, and before life he is never 
lacking in devotion or in humility. He can cherish his means of ex- 
pression and prove them one by one without allowing them to take 
the places of the things he has to express. 

Observe the feeling, the careful tenderness, he has been able to put 
into his most exact and most spontaneous notations, particularly in 
the drawings of [sadora Duncan, in his Baby, in After the Bath, and in 
his other nudes. 

The art of Abraham Walkowitz is intensely human. With him, 
the senses and the reason do not shut out emotion, which too many 
modern painters consider a weakness, a negligible literary quality, 
but which, none the less, has always had a place in the domain of 
art. 

Mr. Walkowitz’s portraits, the faces that he has caught in their 
everyday reality, are full of a spirit and of a psychological understand- 
ing to which he knows how to give style—in, for example, 4 Head of 
a Young Girl, and Human Flowers, and At the Opera. 

With his erudition and his gift for analysis, his capacity for telling 
transpositions and for virtuosity, this searcher has logically arrived at 
synthetic realizations which are more subtle and more expressive as 
they are more economical. Their simplicity, their freshness, and their 
restraint make one forget the knowledge and the skill without which 
their accomplishment would have been impossible. 

In such drawings as Women with Corals and Two Black Diamonds, 
which are not without relation to some drawings of Matisse’s, the 
greatest intensity of expression is truly obtained with the slightest 
means. The admirable and sharply truthful Concert has the same 
virtue: by his treatment of greys alone, by the strength and the 


delicacy of his strokes, and by some other inexplicable miracle, the 
artist has achieved its color and its luminously vibrating atmos- 


phere. 
[9] 










Is it not, then, in these works that this rich and various paint 
has put most of himself, and in them that he has found his 


sure road? oa 
Cuaries VILDRAC ~ 





[Translation by Frances Newman] 


[ 10 ] 


I] 


Mucu of the distinctiveness, as well as much of the fascination, of 
the art of Walkowitz lies in its almost complete detachment from the 
readily recognizable methods of the modernist leaders, and in its 
consequent reticence in giving itself to the spectator. At first view 
his more characteristic pictures appear merely as medleys of har- 
monious lines; but on closer inspection these linear congeries slowly 
resolve themselves into the salient contoural forms of the human body, 
landscape, portraiture, and still-life. Thus one receives from his 
drawings the emotion of form independent of the actual documentary 
model. Indeed, the model to Walkowitz is only a means to an esthetic 
end; and, despite the superficial objectivity and the element of easy 
recognizability in many of his drawings, his art can not be judged or 
explained on grounds of representation: it must be approached, not 
with the eyes alone, but with a highly developed subjective sensi- 
tivity capable of experiencing form and, at the same time, of ignoring 
the pictorial and associative aspects of form. 

Though in manner and conception Walkowitz is intensely modern, 
evidences of his admiration for the older masters are discoverable in 
both the simplest and most complex of his pictures. In one work, for 
instance, we find the frieze type of composition patterned on the 
flowing two-dimensional form of the Byzantine mosaics. Here Walko- 
witz has utilized the full human figure (as one utilizes flowers) in an 
ordered decoration whose drawing, while subtle and delicate, attracts 
by its very simplicity of design. In another of his works we have a 
complicated linear organization of Michelangelesque nudes moulded 
into an intricate play of space-filling, which requires studious concen- 
tration for its complete esthetic visualization. In general, Walkowitz 
uses nature as an inspiration for a highly abstract method of creation. 


[11] 


In him are embodied many of the traits that have become familiar to 
us in the works of Picasso. In fact, his talent is not dissimilar to 
Picasso’s; and especially is this resemblance noticeable in his treat- 
ment of gradations of tone and in his poetic interplays of light and 
shadow. 

Walkowitz’s art is both fecund in form and varied in aspect. In 
many of his drawings he is, like Renoir, interested chiefly in lyrical 
linear composition. In others he deals primarily with mass, after the 
manner of Daumier. And in several of his pictures he has approached 
volume from the point of view of Cézanne. At times—as in his New 
York series—he has sought to depict emotional impressions and 
mental reactions; but the result is not the ephemeral mood-projection 
arrived at by the Futurists; for even in the most objective of Walko- 
witz’s work his methods are never solely illustrative: there is always 
the underlying esthetic import. Moreover, his talent possesses that 
duality of concept that informs all great art: his best drawings contain 
a constructive, or masculine, quality, which has to do primarily with 
rhythm and form; and also a purely receptive and reconstructive, or 
emotional, quality, which is inherently feminine. In his later work 
these two qualities have been counterbalanced and co-ordinated into 
a unity of visual projection. 

Walkowitz has had a far more extensive self-training on the pro- 
founder side of draughtsmanship than many of the older and better- 
known black-and-white artists of the modernist movement. His art 
has progressed slowly, and infinite pains have gone into its making. 
The divergencies of his technique, as manifest in the different stages 
of his work, are the result of intellectual experimentation rather than 
of a seeking for individualized surfaces. His simplest drawings from 
the standpoint of documentation, are, like the water-colors of 
Cézanne, very often the most complex in their statement of structural 
principles. In all his later work there is a sense of qualitatively limit- 
less space which comes only to one whose knowledge of zesthetic form 
has been evolved through years of study and technical application. 


[12] 


Here, then, is an artist who not only should appeal to the more pro- 
found art-lover, but should interest all other artists who are seriously 
striving toward significant expression. In a day of wide-spread and 
slavish imitation both in and out of the schools, Walkowitz stands 
conspicuously forth as an artist who has followed his own vision and 
has sought for the meaning of beauty, not in the externalities of life, 
but in the deeper relationships of line and form. 


WILLARD HunTINGTON WRIGHT 


[3 | 


III 


Jupcinc entirely from his pictures I should say Mr. Walkowitz has 
an overwhelming sympathy with the working-classes. I have said 
this often in the public prints without contradiction from the artist 
and consequently have assumed it to be a fact. Yet, oddly enough, 
in all of our many years’ acquaintance, I have never heard Mr. 
Walkowitz express political views; and also, oddly enough, it is one 
of the rare instances in which I find myself, as a critic, compelled to 
envisage the matter of an artist before taking up the manner. 

And yet Mr. Walkowitz is not one of those painters who hearken 
to Sir Joshua’s advice to sew up their mouths! Far from it. To say 
he is a fluent talker expresses it mildly. He is copious. But the fact 
that he never told me that he loves the working-classes whilst his 
drawings proclaim this love upon the house tops shows at least that 
he obeys the warning of the first president of the Academy in effect 
by shutting off the secret recesses of his heart. What won't be said 
comes out upon paper and canvas. The working-classes are loved. 

Mr. Walkowitz doesn’t love his love intellectually in the modern 
style, although himself a modernist, but sighs like a furnace medi- 
eevally and yearns for something he scarcely knows what. Probably 
a general softening of conditions! For surely he wouldn’t altogether 
relieve the working-classes of work? It is that that makes them 
superior—gives them their true strength! Without work they 
wouldn’t be a bit better than the rest of us. 

The nearest thing to Elysium he demands for them, apparently, is 
an afternoon off in Central Park. There are numbers of Walkowitzian 
drawings in which the rank and file have taken possession of that unex- 
pected oasis in a great city and have flung themselves upon the turf there 
in complete relaxation. They lie prostrate in the drawings, breath- 
ing but no more. One gets the idea they have tramped from great 


[ 14 ] 


distances bearing the offspring who gambol feebly among the bushes 
and who are as different as possible from the cupidons of Raphael. 
All this, of course, shows that these drawings have age, date from 
some time back, for these Utopian dreams of Mr. Walkowitz have 
come true. The people do now have afternoons off, two of them, in 
fact, each week; and do take possession of the turf in Central Park in 
appalling numbers. It would be pleasant to record that this boon 
had been brought about by art—like the reformations in the English 
boy schools after the publication of “Nicholas Nickleby’’—but in fact 
“the people’’ owe their present ease and large wages as much as 
anything to the late despised war and scarcely are aware as yet of 
their lover and well-wisher, Mr. Walkowitz. This is an especial pity. 
Love begets love in theory and sometimes certainly it does in fact. 
I wonder how long it will be before the populace reciprocates this 
great affection of the artist? I fear, never. The fact is, and this is 
curious, that Mr. Walkowitz’s art is not addressed to them, the peo- 
ple, but to their former oppressors of the cultured classes. Not even 
the gigantic dockman pulling on ropes, or the immense ploughman 
struggling with the plough, will seem heroic to workmen themselves, 
or even the kind of vindication they like. They are too bruised, 
battered and misshapen to be held aloft as hopeful symbols. As in 
the “Hairy Ape” of Mr. Eugene O’Neill, ulcers are shown that the 
poor victims would rather hide than have cured. 

It is to me, I find, and people like myself who are only mildly inter- 
ested in the woes of the working-classes and vastly interested in the 
general woes, that these drawings have been addressed. They pre- 
suppose an experience with art. They require one to know the 
painter’s language. Back in the days when Mr. Walkowitz was first 
attracting attention in Mr. Stieglitz’s small gallery, we were all 
amused by the ardent claim of one young collector who had acquired 
a Walkowitz and who asserted that a Whistler could not hang in a 
room with a Rembrandt, but that a Walkowitz could! This seemed 
a bold enough estimate. That it was not an extravagance of expres- 


bers] 


sion only came to me later when I acquired a Walkowitz myself. I 
found, after a time, that my Walkowitz could hang with a Rem- 
brandt as well as with a Whistler (for I do not make class distinctions 
‘mart more than in life, and to say that a thing is a work of art is to 
give it place in my collection); that it hangs the more readily with a 
Whistler in that there is indeed something in common in the two 
styles. To some Mr. Walkowitz may merely be a socialist howling 
for more ease for workers, or chanting the particular sacredness of a 
working-man’s parenthood (he does that a lot) or singing the praise 
of Isadora (Isadora signified something definitely to socialists before 
she married one); but to me he is an artist who simply becomes 
lyrical when exalted by his emotions, whose touch is Whistlerian (I 
mean this as a compliment, in spite of the fact that in Whistler him- 
self I am sometimes bored by the sameness of the approach) whose 
color is eloquent in itself, and whose drawings are always large in plan. 

The color and the bigness of drawing! Those are the two qualities 
that most refresh me in Walkowitz. One of my drawings has a typical 
trinity—man, woman and child—by way of subject; and I began 
with a suspicion of it. The man and woman are taller than we like 
human beings to be, outside of Barnum’s, and their feet are not 
firmly planted upon the ground, and in fact there are numerous little 
slips of the sort that we forgive and even expect in the drawings of 
children but scarcely tolerate in the work of an adult who has gone 
through the schools. However, once upon the wall, this drawing 
gained upon me, and still enchains my interest and respect after a 
dozen years. Its eloquence is potent but subtle. I cannot yet pre- 
tend to say exactly what it is that impresses me, further than the 
aforesaid “‘bigness.”’ It is, in fact, so big that it constantly recalls the 
frescoes at Monreale and all the other antique largenesses of gesture 
that I have studied. We say sometimes in complaint that Americans 
never see gestures and never get them into art. Walkowitz, 1t must 
be allowed, is an exception. 

Henry McBride 


[ 16 ] 


IV 


“T want to paint humanity, humanity 
and again humanity’’—Van Gocu. 


Here 1s a modernist who stayed quite human—an anomaly among 
his kind. 

It is an ominous sign that men like Walkowitz are an exception 
and not the norm in modern art. 

Men who are as unassuming and undemonstrative as Walkowitz 
do not receive a fair amount of public attention in an age like ours, 
when hamstrung criticism is all but a retainer of the swaggering 
chieftains in art. Nor does a man like him invite the garish pzeans 
currently offered to lording potentates of the brush and chisel. The 
more is it an act of Justice to the man and to ourselves to picture him, 
just as he is, on the real background of his environment and time. 

A passion for progress kept Walkowitz always among the men in 
the vanguard of art evolution. Such were and are, by their sincere 
intentions, the several groups of the modernist movement in art— 
the fast multiplying progeny of nineteenth century individualism, 
not to speak of other less definite parentage. Already Baudelaire 
foresaw the peril lurking in self-centering art: “Individuality, that 
tiny possession, devoured collective originality. The painter killed 
painting.” Were the great individualist alive today, he might have 
added: “. . . and the artist killed art; and the man of life killed the 
man’s life.’ No other trait of modernist art is as obvious as its 
tendency to remove out of the art-product and, consequently, out 
of the artist’s soul all that is tangibly human and mundane. Unlike 
his prototype, the hero of Balzac’s Le Chef-d’euvre inconnu, the 
modernist is aggressive, after a fashion. He revenged himself upon 
an unappreciative world by wiping it off his slate. He flung his 
tabula rasa into the face of the world. Alas, with this quixotic gesture 
he has flung the major content of his soul out of his being. Still undis- 


eet! 


mayed, he proceeded to replace experience by scholastic ratiocination; 
vital urge—by esthetic heat; living sensation—by hair-splitting 
theory; the cosmic firmament—by mystic consciousness. 

Although in close contact with the modernist movement, Walko- 
witz would not and could not inhibit in his art the evidences of con- 
crete leanings which a more orthodox modernist might perhaps 
tolerate in the inarticulate recesses of his mind, but in his art—never. 
While to an uncompromising modernist pure intellect alone is the 
source of creativeness, Walkowitz instinctively as well as deliberately 
cultivates an emotional mood in his work. To this, mainly, his work 
owes the thrilling, quickening quality of throbbing, distinctly human 
beauty—a quality advisedly shunned and, indeed, unattainable in 
the embalmed perfection conceived of the bloodless imagination of 
our dry-as-bones modernistic purists. 

Still, it is not in the nature of this artist to furnish mirror-like re- 
flections of phenomena; for, in his case, it is not a passive mind that 
focuses the rays of experience but a highly sensitive apperceptive 
faculty animated by poetical temperament. 

There is a lyricism in Walkowitz reminiscent of the poetical nature 
of the Ukrainian people among whom he was born. There is, too, a 
dash of other-worldliness that might be an abiding effect of the spell 
of the boundless Siberian plains he beheld in childhood, during his 
family’s wanderings in search of a better living. However, the basic 
trait in him that holds all others together and sustains them in their 
upward striving—as the tree-trunk holds together and sustains its 
branches and crown—his fundamental trait is an interest in humble, 
toiling and struggling humanity. 

Walkowitz is a facile, prolific worker, sensitively responsive to the 
diverse promptings of his time. Thence comes the great variety and 
timeliness of his work. He gathers sensations of line, form and tone 
from the natural aspect of things and transmutes them into spiritu- 
alized elements of imaginative compositions, in the final harmonics 
of which he seeks to attain a mood corresponding to the initial sensa- 


[ 18 ] 


tions. He is addicted neither to exoticism nor to sensationalism, not 
even in his abstractions. He seems to dislike the complex, although 
unafraid of the difficult. Primarily, he seems to be bent on the 
elimination of all irrelevant integrants of a composition. He shows 
a high degree of competence in the manipulation of the several means 
of artistic expression. He can vitalize a line, quicken form, sensitize 
space, animate every part of the pictorial plane. Whether his theme 
be a single figure, a small group, or a crowd of men and women, it 
will become entirely subject to the single dominant mood at which 
the artist 1s aiming: to the technical and emotional unity that was 
intended to be the adroit means of objectifying the artist’s reaction to 
an impression. As to the simple consonance, the subtle rhythm, the 
chaste tone which pervade his work—they are the genuine stamp of 
the artist’s own nature, his graphically embodied self-revelation. 
“His work is his personality,’ wrote Oscar Bluemner, the gifted 
painter and acute critic. In Walkowitz’s hand, pencil and charcoal 
become subtly responsive, full-toned, deep-stringed instruments upon 
which he plays with equal virtuosity and pathos, growing most elo- 
quently musical when his native impulse and acquired affinities 
coalesce and beget a compelling sentiment. Then—as in the famous 
drawings of East Side types exhibited on the occasion of the Forum 
Exhibition (New York, 1916)—his artistic creativeness reaches its 
loftiest levels. 


“For each beholds what in his bosom lurks.” 


In the greatest part of Walkowitz’s works, the principal deter- 
minant seems to issue from the artist’s gravitation toward concrete 
vital realities—a gravitation visibly tempered by a sort of stoicism. 
Undoubtedly, this determinant element owes its nurture to the New 
York East Side where, on the death of the father, the migration of 
Walkowitz’s family had cast him, in early adolescent years. Here, 
under diverse, mostly adverse conditions, it yet was his good fortune 
to come across some regenerative social phenomena and personalities; 


Eros 


to meet with group-solidarity and individual self-assertion; with un- 
yielding loyalty and self-dedication to lofty ends. Briefly, it was his 
good fortune to grow up in the presence of the retrievers of the be- 
nighted ghetto region who planted in the artist’s soul the seed of 
collective consciousness and imbued him with the strong faith and 
courage without which the heroic leap from Back Street to Cosmic 
Avenue is unthinkable. 

Of course, Walkowitz can not be put down as an exemplar of an 
undiluted collective consciousness. He is too human to be absolutely 
rectilinear. Asa matter of fact, he could not become such even under 
the pressure of modernist geometric rectitude. Obviously, many of 
his works have been produced with no permanent ulterior motive. 
Some were made to gratify ephemeral incentives and purposes; 
others in mere playful manipulation and selection of available artistic 
media; still others in response to contemporary watchwords, as tenta- 
tive experimental concessions to innovatory influences; others, again, 
just in a spirit of relaxation (to which Goethe gives a place in an 
evaluation of art), at a time when the artist’s swaying attention lets 
his creative power linger on indistinct, misty perceptions of all sorts 
of imagery wafted into consciousness in its off moments. For all 
that, it can not be denied that, in the largest part of Walkowitz’s 
drawings and paintings, meandering attention and unpremeditated 
creativeness is not the rule. The significant fact lies in his readiness 
to indulge in spontaneous, “‘purely intuitive” practice which, for the 
moment, loses sight of his more or less permanent determinants and 
willingly disregards scholastic loyalties. How does he compare with 
other modern artists in regard to this? 

In academic art, “pure intuition” is irreconcilable with loyalty to 
hallowed classicism, the while in modernist art it clashes with the 
sense of duty toward the scientific imperative of our age; which state 
of things, however, prevents neither of the two factions from pro- 
fessing unshakable faith in this occult principle and from enjoining a 
horror of its infraction. Nor does it prevent the modernists in par- 


[ 20 ] 


ticular from lustily rationalizing their art and blandly affirming it 
as Simon-pure intuition. They are helped in this singular practice by 
the markedly accommodating nature of pure intuition in virtue of 
which the latter invariably assumes, for the special benefit of every 
modernist, a shape miraculously coinciding with the intellectual 
premises of his school. This miraculous coincidence being taken for 
granted, it becomes self-evident within each school that digression 
from its formula means a sinful disregard of wonder-working intui- 
tion, plain apostasy. Grey uniformity thus becomes a sure token of 
scholastic orthodoxy. Accordingly, on the grey scholastic background, 
Walkowitz’s periodic indulgence in non-scholastic lapses can not but 
appear as shocking instances of heterodoxy. Sure enough, secessionist 
academicians are looking askance at this heretic. Still the hardened 
sinner seems unrepentant. 

He knows that academism is not limited to Academies of Design, 
nor fully delineated by mere conservatism in technique. Moreover, 
he realizes that the most vicious traits of academism are its super-class 
attitude and clannishness, its aristocratic scorn of every man’s reality 
and life, its artistic and esthetic emaciation—the very traits which 
are vitiating even the most well-intentioned regenerative efforts of 
the radical art movements. Does he realize what so many heavy- 
hearted modernists are dimly realizing, that abstractionist abracada- 
bras are not the open sesame of true art? Does he realize that far 
from being a curative agency against the ravages of canonized aca- 
demic atavism, current secessionist radicalism is but a logical ampli- 
fication of this traditional bane, a dressing up of a medizeval spook 
in pseudo-scientific, pseudo-modern attire—a supremely naive, well- 
intentioned but none the less tragic conceit of world-shy world- 
builders? 

Walkowitz is not an analyst, either in his art or in private life. 
Mainly he is a man of faith, like most men. He has made his faith of 
sundry ingredients, of heart and mind elements—like most men. But 
unlike most men (of his epoch and class) he kept the ingredients of 


[ 21 ] 


his faith in a just balance. To such a man of inner harmony there lies 
a self-evident truth in Elie Faure’s words: “There is no reason why the 
artist . . . should live outside the currents of instinct which deter- 
mine the special direction of the minds of his time.” Indeed, there is 
no reason, for any artist, to live outside the vital currents of his time 
save the spurious reason of mystic theory. 


“My worthy friend, grey are all theories, 
And green alone is life’s golden tree.” 


Joun WEICHSEL 


[ 22 ] 


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7 NUDE STUDY 


APRON 





13. STUDY OF A MAN 





' 
at apie teccominior it m eats oa cus oer apcasaas dations as tnnsoami 





14. PORTRAIT 





+ po ke or “ 











ASPIRATION 





ay 














117. HEAD OF A GIRL 





Poe ik, APPLE 


i 
J 


ay 





POON 





so 


— 





19. WOMEN FRIENDS 





20. 





THE DREAMER 





a aR Soe 





a 


a 





ft} 















I. HEAD OF A YOUNG GIRL 











* 
i 

td 
te 
z 





a2. THE BATH 








23. MEDITATION 


r™ 








24. TORSO 








25. DESPAIR 








- =) - 4 be 3? - 
ss Mi 
’ 
a?’ , 
e 7 \ 
7 , 7 * 
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aw - » 
a y * 
> = 7 
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rec! - ; 4 . 
eS ’ a 
-’ _ - 
- 
7 
fi 
: Fe 
< - 
: re 
| 
+ | 
\ 
= : 
“ 
6 
. 
1 
J . 
. 








RTI 


dy eae 











26. FROM LIFE TO LIFE 


™ 





WHLAHY NI AGNLS “Zz 











28. HEAD OF A WOMAN 


, 


y 


it 





AVd YAWWAS V NO ‘6z 





Se 


hs ii m+? 
aig eas (aloo: et a 
Ne ae F 
BS is eke an 
ie es wi SS 
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thy ae 
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ia 
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d 
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. 
i 7 
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=e 
re: 
re 
= ae, 
= 
z 
i 
f 
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5 " 
me 
4 








30. HUMAN RHYTHM 


MONOTYPE 








31. SOARING 


Ns 


ee 


« 
a. 
ae 
; ad 
a 
Ror 
ol 
“a 
a 
7 
i 
- 
+ 





32. 





WOMAN COMBING 





33. THE FAMILY 





ea ie ean aoe . 
ee ete 
ie eh 


ae ae Pe 
a : - ee 
fi es a ee 
s ie Z 
c ae on -< Lo | 
noe a 
s* hy _ Dh é 
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. 
j 
, 
Wy 
e * 
, *} 
c e's 
* 
» 
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ps ke . 
¥ 
f 
i 
‘4 
1 








34. AT WORK 





a! 





35. POWER 





wn ’ 





36. A LABORER 








37. THE MAN OF IRON 








38. THE SLAVE 








. TO MUSIC : 








40. LONGING 














r 
t 
‘ a nh : 
a 
» 
. > i 


. ISADORA DUNCAN—2 











43. ISADORA DUNCAN—3 











. ISADORA DUNCAN—; 














t 
? 
’ 
a 
f] = — 
| 
é 
i» , 
’ 
f 
] 
| 
‘ 
7 
: “a 
_ 


> 


ADORA DUNCAN—6_ 


\ 


Oey 


' 7 mS ay 
“) Sis~ es eT | 
. —  ¢ 





aS 












7. NATURE ABSTRACT 

















oh 





So. CABARET SINGER 





~% 


* 






hi 


Va 


a 


pss 
Lu 


° 
, 
» 
ye 
rs 
7 
f 


- 





pre 
a 


tAg 








51. SISTERS 








52. BARE-FOOTED WOMAN 


\> 


% 
ora 
~ ehh A 


og 


Le 


: rv ee = 
Py Peli 








53. THE CITY 
WATER COLOR 








$4. WOMEN RESTING 












55. THE BATHERS 
MONOTYPE 





56. GRIEF 





wien Ms 





ale? 





57. THE KISS 


MONOTYPE 


ea ee 
‘ea 


of 











59. ELEVATION 











60. PAIN 


_ 


~~ 





; 
: 
: 
: 





61. ABSTRACTION 





, > 








62. ADMIRERS 


< 








oe eee = 





63. DRESSING 





64. HUMAN ABSTRACT 





mY 


“2 


be | 











65. STILL LIFE 





Ay 








66. HUMAN ABSTRACT 


\* 








67. BACCHANAL 











68. THE PARK 


WATERCOLOR 


a © 


~ 








69. LANDSCAPE 


WATER COLOR 


s 
yi = 
ae 
’ s 
~ ae 
a’ Pe 
‘ » 
P yo 
f 4 
5 
| 
4 
' 
x 
’ 
a < 
+ 
‘ 
s 





- 
+ 











70. PORTRAIT 


i = 
AF .« 
shad 7 
reer 
- i oh Rie 
a? ae oe 
b aah | 











71. RISING 








. 
rs 











| 





DS OR Neb CON Lee gee Pe ee 


mf 


ad 





; 
: 





72. ABSTRACT LANDSCAPE 














PRIMITIVE MAN 





t 
if 
E 








74. DANCER 












ey 
‘ 
« 
’ aes 
' a 7 >| ; 
- 
=~ i 
A ‘ 
; <% Pe 
a ” : f ‘ 7 
- bg - — 
- - <7? i = jn 
Pe a af 
- iv 5 i « Cal 
® * * 7 
; ; ; 
A ti + 
he ‘ ie 
‘ 4 
WA ake Le 
Lely a 
ie ai 
4 a | 
< 
rics 
- a 
a a ea 
* 
a | 
, 
oy 
7 
¢ 
« 
a s 
a 
te < 4 
: 
~ 4 
. 





75. LIFE—A DECORATION 


‘ 
> 








76. TWILIGHT 
MONOTYPE 


an 





“Po mA ene! 





77. DANCING GIRL 








7 


» 














78. THE LAKE 


WATER COLOR 





“ 


x 





a 
a 
xq 
O 
Nn 
a) 
Z 
xq 
_ 
eH 
oO 
x 
a4 
EH 
n 
—Q 
xq 
ON 
™~ 








SUHHLVA *O8 









“ 


* 
o 








PROMENADERS : 





” 





ete, CONCERT 








2 
2 
je) 
©} 
z 
= 
7 
3 
z 
oe 














84. AFTER THE BATH 














fs 


<y 


. SET ar 


aa 


yf 
ree 





Lv 


4 


EE PET. -— 
; 6 


wo 
_ 


. 











86. AT THE OPERA 
OIL PAINTING 





ONILNIVd TIO 
AUvAOS SUADLAU °“L8 








I ———— 


oo. A SLUDY 








SONIHOLA & TALSVd ‘STIO *68 








SNNIGCHN 





dSUHAIC NI 








DRAWINGS BY 
A.WAL 


k 





gi. PEN AND BRUSH 








HSAUd AGNV TIONGd ‘Nad 
MYOA MAN 


ZLIMOMM aA 





DUGAN 





























of Sa ee de 
SED Meee. 


a 


- 





Td Cr 
Se 


is = 
<2 
= 


vari 























93. NEW YORK 
INK AND BRUSH 





_ 








94. NEW YORK 
WATER COLOR 








gs. NEW YORK 
WATER COLOR 


* 
? 








g6. TIMES SQUARE AT NIGHT 


WATER COLOR 


- 
uy 








- Tae 


97. NEW YORK 


PENCIL 








g8. NEW YORK 


PENCIL 





‘ww 


ee eee 


> 
re 





Pe Sees ee ae ae oe ee ee 


gg. NEW YORK 
ABSTRACT 





’ 
. 
‘ 





— 


gE omens 


% 





100. NEW YORK 
ABSTRACT 





23-B) 7E8 oe | 





STERLING AND FRANCINE CLARK ART INSTITUTE 
GETTY CENTER LIBRARY LIBRARY 


i A ti Mere ape 


